Delusional
by StArBarD
Summary: Jim spoke with a voice that was like crackling white logs in a campfire."Am I burning you Sherlock?" Moriarty has injected Sherlock with something that makes him hallucinate, can friends save him from his enemy and his mind? John's delusion now up as well.
1. Poison

"Can't you tell I've come to burn you?" Jim said, grinning impishly.

Sherlock remained rooted in place, his face a mask of indifference; yet in his mind he was calculating: John would be back from the hospital in just a few minutes; how likely was it that Jim's plan involved hurting him? Could it be avoided? What was he thinking?

"Oh," Sherlock made his best ploy at indifference, shrugging nonchalantly and tugging his gloves off. It was warm in the flat and the heat made his great coat and gloves somewhat unbearable. "And how are you going to do that…?"

Jim's grin widened, and the cheerfulness in his black eyes twinkled. Whatever Sherlock was doing, he was evidently playing right into Moriarty's scrip, and the villain was effervescent with glee.

"You and I…we pretend we're infallible for each others sakes..." Jim edged closer to Sherlock, slithering closer with every step, staring as though he were hypnotized; boring into the detective's face. It took all of Sherlock's restraint not to step back, for fear of looking as though he were stepping away from the challenge.

In truth Sherlock did not want Jim anywhere near him. The man had a way of making him feel as though he was invading Sherlock's personal space from across the room; and then he would come closer.

"We pretend we're gods, or titans; giants of the mind: invincible, infallible, only a real challenge to each other." Jim said, his empty eyes flashing with dark lightning. "We play as though nothing can harm us, and nothing ever will. But for you at least, that's not true."

Sherlock scoffed at such an obvious ploy. If this was his way of scaring him into feeling _doubt_ about his abilities, he had much still to wish for.

"Oh, don't fool yourself." Sherlock said haughtily. "Do you expect me to believe you're really that deluded? That you think you're more than human?"

Jim was close, too close. Sherlock could feel his hot breath condensing to his shirt. It disgusted him. He played with the thought of casually stepping back, but Jim made his most intimate advance yet. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's elbows, tenderly caressing the sinewy limbs beneath the black coat.

"Ow." Sherlock felt a thin, sharp, stabbing pain where he was being gripped and he wrenched himself out of his nemesis' grasp with a muted horror. _Nobody_ grabbed him, _nobody_ touched him; _ever!_

"Are you _mad_?" He asked, beginning to sweat. It was warm inside the flat, too warm, much too warm for a day in September.

Jim didn't answer with words; he had hunched over, bent on himself and begun trembling with wild laughter. His laugh was low and screechy; his hair that had been slicked back carefully had come loose and hung in wet, oily, mottled vines.

Sherlock's face erupted in sweat. It was too hot; far too hot. The flat had never been this warm before. In agony, he peeled off his coat and cast it aside in a rumpled heap.

Sherlock backed himself against a wall and gasped for breath. The room seemed to have turned into a blazing jungle; each humid breath was so thick it died in his throat; he was suffocating.

The wall however, was cool to the touch, and he rubbed against it blissfully. It was like a cool cloth to his face and it became instantly evident that it wasn't the flat producing the heat, if it was, the walls would have been as unbearable as the air.

Sherlock glanced up, squinting as beads of sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked away the tears and noticed Moriarty had recovered from his reverie and making his way, snake-like towards him again.

His skin was glowing, positively glowing with an orange light; he beamed with it. His eyes were no longer black, they were like scarab beetles, lit up in glittering shades of blue and green with flaming yellow patterns on their wings.

Jim made to talk, but instead his mouth erupted into a tongue of orange flame. He paused, pleased by the blazing outburst and then blew his dragon- fire out again and again.

Sherlock watched this development insensibly; his mind seemed to have left his body to fend for itself. Every muscle, every fiber of his being told him to flee, run away and hide somewhere, but he was completely frozen in the wake of the blistering bursts of flame that Jim was shooting at him.

He opened his own mouth to scream, but nothing came out but a hoarse, whining noise.

Jim stood beneath him, tongue of flame licking his glowing red lips, radiating a dizzying heat spell from every inch of his body. Sherlock felt his own body take a sudden fevered chill and he began to tremble wildly, sweat flying off of his body.

Now Jim, slowly, purposefully reached out to take Sherlock by the elbows again. Sherlock managed a weak shriek and threw himself against the wall, flattening his body away from the human inferno when he realized he had nowhere to run.

Jim's hands suddenly burst into a dazzling flower of yellow flames; his skin peeled away black and charred like burnt paper. His fingers had turned into golden claws of fire that gripped Sherlock's arms, searing away the suit cloth and the skin as they dug their way into his flesh.

Sherlock gasped in pain and disbelief, watching his arms develop red bubbling blisters that boiled and popped, oozing a clear or white liquid that ran down his hands and pool on the floor at his feet.

Jim spoke with a voice that was like crackling white logs in a campfire. "Am I burning you Sherlock? Are you invincible now? Am I more than human _now_?"

Sherlock screamed as the tongue of fire whipped out of Jim's searing mouth and rent his skin just as the flames had torn his hands. Suddenly the lips were peeled back, revealing a bright red gash that snarled with sizzling flames. Suddenly the scarab beetles in his eyes were melted and gone, and yellow blazes shot up his eyebrows, catching his hair and his face on fire.

Suddenly Jim Moriarty was no longer; the Flame Imp stood before him, burning him in its wretched clutches.

Sherlock, with a rush of fear and adrenaline reached out his hands and buried them deep into the heart of the fire, pushing with all of his might.

The Flame Imp soared across the flat like a stuttering firework, catching the couch and a small table in the blaze. With all the clutter it was only a matter of time before the entire building would become a lair for the burning villain.

Sherlock cradled both of his arms tenderly, nursing the burns and the wounds. He stumbled down the hallway into his room and slammed the door shut, propping his chair against the knob and effectively locking it.

As soon as the door was sealed, he heard the searing of burning wood accompanying the persistent thudding of a fist at his door.

"Open up Sherlock." The Flame Imp hissed.

Sherlock looked down at his arms, and marveled in the miracle that seemed to be occurring. His burns were already pink and shiny new flesh, the puncture wounds from the where golden fingers had dug into his flesh were mere bruises. The only thing that seemed to be a real problem was the irritating stabbing in his left arm.

He gazed carefully at his arm and reached out, caressing it gently, wincing when it hurt. There was something under the skin which was forcing it up. Sherlock grabbed the offending item and wrenched it out of his arm. He stared at it, unable to make up his mind as to the purpose of it, when he suddenly realized what it was and what it meant. He spat on his bedroom floor, cursed under his breath and let the syringe fall upon his nightstand.


	2. Capture

He collapsed onto his bed, dizzy and nervous. There was no flame imp, it was just Jim. _Just_ _Jim_.

The crackling of _Just Jim_ against his bedroom door was impossible to ignore. It sounded so real, so hot. Sherlock buried his moist face into his pillows and tried to bury his gnawing anxiety with it. The downy pillows were soft and cool. He felt that if he could only calm his anxious mind the way he had calmed his panicked body he could drift off to sleep.

The snapping and sizzling of Jim faded off. For one brief, glorious moment Sherlock hoped that the hallucinations had ceased. He sat up and crept over to the large, iron framed door and pressed himself against the cold stone wall. The castle draft pressed coolly against his face and smelled of moonlight and the far-distant stables.

From behind the door he heard the sounds of a struggle, it was impossible to tell who or what. He hoped that someone had seen fit to throw a bucket of water on the oversized torch, and the thing was in its death throes.

The struggle stopped suddenly, and all was silent behind the door. Sherlock wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve and listened closely, cautiously. He didn't want to act to soon, or too hastily.

There was a knock upon the door, just above where he was crouching.

"Oh Sherlock," The Flame Imp crackled "There's someone here who needs to see you."

Sherlock felt an ice-cold stone plunge into the pit of his stomach.

"Don't do it! It's a trap-"

Sherlock knelt down until his fevered head brushed the floor. His mouth was agape in horror. The Flame Imp had captured Prince Jonthon of the fayries beyond the lake; Prince Jonthon who had saved him more times than he could ever hope to count, and yet while he had fought for his rescue, Sherlock had sat idly by, hidden and cowed by his nemesis.

With shaking hands Sherlock threw away the heavy oaken chair that had barred the door and unlocked the handle. As soon as the door had opened a crack, the fires of the Flame Imp began to seep inside.

The imp blew open the door with a gust of heat and reached out with one golden thread of fire to lace around him, but he batted it away with one swift, deft movement.

Laughing maliciously, the imp seized Sherlock by the arm, and led him, timid as a sheep into the castle parlor where five of the most hideous goblins stood around the elegant furniture, snarling at each other and blowing steam from their curved snouts, bristling with leather armor and ringing with metal weapons.

"Sherlock!" the largest and most horrible goblin, oozing viscous slime from its snout and eyes, slobbering frothy drool and bearing it's horrible tusked fangs in a wretched snarl held a fearsome curved blade to the slender throat of Prince Jonthon with one hand, and had the Prince's opalescent dragonfly wings clutched in the fist of the other.

The Prince seemed no worse, only frightened, which was a blessing.

"Oh lord, what've they done to you Sherlock?" Jonthon cried out.

Sherlock arched his eyebrow. "Nothing… I'm fine." He tried to say, but it sounded delirious. He wiped the sweat off of his brow again, for it was trickling into his eyes and making it seem like he was crying. He must appear brave before the Prince of Fayries.

"Come with ussss." The Flame imp hissed and sputtered, his raging blaze had calmed itself into a gentle burn.

"Will you let…?" Sherlock paused, swallowing hard. His heart was throbbing in his throat, making talking hard, and his parched mouth was no place for his thick tongue to work. "John go…"

The Flame Imp was silent, aside from the crackling of his body and the sputtering of the floor that was eaten to fuel his fire. From somewhere deep inside of him, a brilliant light, like that of a yellow star flashed once, the most intense heat and light that Sherlock had ever seen. He closed his eyes and moaned; the blaze scorching his face was unbearable.

"Yessss…" the flames hissed.

"Sherlock! No!" The Prince cried as the hideous goblin wrenched his wings a little tighter, lifting him off the floor. "Don't let him take you, you're sick! You need a hospital!"

There were tears in Jonthon's multicolored eyes; he looked up to the heavens, as though willing his army of fayries to descend and save them both and his eyes blazed gold. He shot a glare at the horrendous monster that held him captive and his eyes were as black as the pitch black night. He looked to Sherlock, pleadingly, and his eyes glowed with the darkest blue, cobalt.

"Stop it. You'll rip them." Sherlock murmured, referring to the lovely wings that he'd always been envious of.

"Come." The Flame Imp released Sherlock from his grip, and Sherlock collapsed to the ground, cradling his blistered arm as the rest of the goblins descended upon him.

He was limp and composed as the beasts twisted his tender arms and threw him onto his chest, kicking him every so often with their brutish boots and clamping iron manacles around his wrists. He allowed himself to be hoisted up by his shoulders until he was kneeling at the feet of the sadistic Flame Imp, who looked him over with his shining red eyes as one might look over a piece of valuable furniture being wrapped and prepared for transport.

Jonthon made small noises in protest, but these were mostly muffled. Sherlock didn't need to look over and see why; he wanted to spare himself the sight of the conquered Fayrie if at all possible.

The goblins stuffed his mouth with damp moss and pulled him to his feet, crushing his shoulders with their iron-grips and tossing him from one goblin's hand to the next, passing him around like a child's toy.

"Leaving…" The Flame Imp spat orders at his minions in the language of fire, but Sherlock caught the one solitary word which mattered: they were leaving, and taking him…God only knew where. He closed his eyes and let the rivulets of boiling sweat leak over his eyelashes and down his face as he was shoved forward and made to trip out of the room.


	3. Salvation

The Flame Imp blazed a path of ash and cinders as he walked ahead of the party down the stairs, catching the portraits and tapestries on fire with the lapping tendrils of his hellish body. The shining marble was dampened instantly by a thin layer of black soot. Sherlock gazed on sadly, disheartened by the rampant destruction. The precious staircase had always been his favorite part of his lovely home. The King of the North had entrusted it to him with the promise of redemption and greatness. So long as he protected himself and his home he would be destined for great accomplishments, and he could reclaim his place in…well, it didn't really matter anymore. He had failed Jonthon, and his home. He couldn't even protect himself now. It was all up in the air.

The Flame Imp stopped suddenly as the staircase reached its first curve, his gently burning body was suddenly taut with spear-like flames. He hissed out his wicked commands and Sherlock was tossed to the floor and landed heavily on his cheek. The door to the flat burst open and in rushed a horde of some sort of odd- shaped people. Sherlock couldn't recognize anyone but their leader, who had a shaggy mane of silver hair and thin, fox-like eyes.

Le Strade bellowed something to the Flame Imp, the Flame Imp hissed out a subtle curse, and then the spells began to fly, tearing the air with their deafening popping noises. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and clamped down on the moss in his jaws as a splitting, trembling fissure seemed to open up directly in between his eyes.

Suddenly a spell hit him in the shoulder, and he screamed with pain, but it was only a scratch, and the fight continued.

He heard a shrieking howl and squinted through the darkness and through the film of sweat before his eyes. The spell battle had stopped for breath as the Mother-woman of the lake emerged from her grotto, horrified at the destruction of the home that was just as much hers as his. One of Le Strade's brigand had seized her and driven her out of harm's way as the goblins made her their new target. Sherlock sighed in relief as her shivering form disappeared back to the safety of her damp lodgings.

"Stop!" The Flame Imp screamed. "Stop!"

And magically, the spells stopped flying, the popping noises died. Sherlock twisted around, curious as to what would have halted both sides instantaneously.

The Flame Imp stood above him, radiating malice and light. One long, gnarled blade of fire wavered inches from his head and threatened to set his curly locks ablaze.

"I have two hossstagesss." The Flame Imp said in English. "Sherlock here and John Watson upssstairsss."

Sherlock craned his neck and saw the motley brigand lower its own weapons, frightened and angry.

"Here'sss what I sssay: Let usss essscort Holmesss off the premisssesss and you can have John, and asss an added treat, hisss keeper." The burning man hissed with glee, red eyes sparkling as they danced from person to person, admiring all of the people he had forced into submission.

Le Strade stepped forward, foxy eyes blazing in defiance, hand dancing around his sheathed weapon. "I don't believe you. I want to see John."

"Then I'll kill them both." There was ice in the Flame Imp's voice. Le Strade no longer doubted and he stood back. The path was clear for The Flame Imp if he would take it.

Sherlock felt the searing pain around his arms as he was lifted onto his feet and pushed roughly downstairs. He marched, trying to keep his composure, yet if the Flame Imp could defeat a whole army of Le Strade's, he doubted he could ever escape the Flame Imp's lair. He kept his eyes to the ground.

"Please, don't." The Mother-woman of the grotto sobbed from where she had been listening behind the door. Sherlock's heart throbbed in sympathy for her, but she was strong. She would survive after him.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Le Strade said his voice hopeless and low, yet Sherlock could hear the edge in it. He always could. The edge which said: _I will never stop looking for you._ Sherlock knew he never would.

The Flame Imp opened the door, and revealed…_London!_

Big, beautiful, perfect London. The city that Sherlock remembered, just the way it had always been. The normal, modern city filled with millions of people, and cars parked up and down Baker Street. The only thing unusual was the burning man at his arm and the black carriage waiting in the street, two nightmare horses pulling impatiently on the reins.

Sherlock felt a rush, like cold water running over his fevered mind, cleansing the delusion. In the white moonlight, the glow of the Flame Imp was weak and dying, his flames had become small flickering leaves of yellow that gently waved in the crisp city air.

In a burst of insight Sherlock turned on the steps outside of 221b and smashed his head against the head of the Flame Imp, ignoring the burn and focusing instead on the limp, lifeless body collapsing into the garbage that had accumulated on the sidewalk.

A goblin grabbed his shoulder and proceeded to shake him, but Sherlock had seen what he needed to see: the Flame Imp of terrifying heat and power as he was, a man lying naked of flames in the trash under the moonlight. He turned and saw for the first time that the goblin, behind his leather armor wore a black suit tie.

Sherlock kicked the goblin mightily and he crashed into his three compatriots. All four monsters tumbled back into the flat even as Sherlock fell down the steps and sprawled into the street. There was a mighty roar as members of Le Strade's crew tackled the monsters while they were down, cuffing them and stoppering their mouths with moss as Le Strade himself crept up the stairs to affect Jonthon's rescue.

Sherlock lay on the concrete street and listened to the roar of cars on the distant highway. He was, for the moment, back in reality. His arms ached from being tied behind his back, and his sweat drenched body shivered from the cold, but he felt wonderful relief. He was back in his element; back in London.

He opened his eyes and stared at his building, the glorious 221b. A flickering of light caught his eye and he instantly honed in on it. The flickering grew into a dim glow, and then a bright glow. With a massive groan the Flame Imp…no, Moriarty hoisted himself out of the filth and wiped the slime away from his face.

He turned to the downed detective, eyes blazing with hellish intensity as the flames of Sherlock's delusion bellowed mightily.

Sherlock called out for the crew who were just within the flat, just within earshot, but the gag stifled all noises.

Moriarty tripped over the garbage, kicking it viciously at Sherlock. It bounced against his face as he struggled to pick himself up off the ground and crawl away from the avenging demon that hissed his name with his tongue of flame.

His limbs were useless trembling things, awkwardly trying to hoist his weight, but failing to hold him for more than a few seconds. He found he could not even raise himself to his knees for more than a moment. The sweat made his body a slippery, foreign object.

Moriarty leaned over him and snarled wickedly, grabbing his clothes with both hands, ignoring the sweat and the weight and dragging him across the concrete towards the black carriage. The coal horses whinnied nervously and hummed with energy.

He threw Sherlock back to the pavement and opened the carriage doors, Sherlock screamed through his gag and thrashed weakly on the pavement, feeling like floundering fish suffocating in the open air. He breathed through his nose and sucked in air and sweat and sputtered in terror as Moriarty seized his collar and lifted him half-in to the abysmal black interior of the carriage of death.

"That's far enough." An icy voice said from within the carriage. Sherlock looked up and saw the cold steely glint of a gun illuminated by the streetlamp, held by a figure in shadows. Moriarty hissed, his flames retreating, yet his hands still gripping Sherlock's throat with his fiery claws.

From just a few meters away Sherlock heard a car door open, and then another, and another. Judging by the bewildered expression that the ball of flames wore these were not his reinforcements.

"It's over James: unhand Sherlock." The voice behind the gun commanded chillingly.

The flames hissed and crackled, crackled and hissed; yet finally they retreated grudgingly, blazing with rage and frustration.

Sherlock, leaning with his torso inside the carriage couldn't see what was happening to Moriarty. If he raised his head the sweat would pour from his forehead into his eyes. Yet he could hear the sounds of a brief struggle, and felt a thrill of terror as a hand gripped his pant leg and was wrenched away.

The man inside the carriage bent over him and carefully removed his gag. Sherlock took a handful of grateful gulps of cool air through his parched mouth and closed his eyes. He was impossibly tired, and his eyelids seemed to have a magnetic attraction to each other.

He felt someone's arms under him and he was lifted out of the carriage and placed gently onto the street.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Someone asked anxiously as he was rolled onto his side and the handcuffs were removed from his stinging arms. Sherlock let his body stretch out, free from all restraints. His hair was cold and wet on the back of his neck and he shivered in the cold night air.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and met the pale white face of the King of the North bending over him like the face of the moon, hovering, concerned. He must have been upset with how he had been defeated and had given up his home to the Flame Imp.

Sherlock weakly moved his mouth, which no longer seemed connected to his body and flapped his dry tongue into the right words.

"…sorry…"

To his surprise the King smiled, and he felt his damp hair being pushed away from his face lovingly.

"Let me through!" Jonthon shouted, pushing his way through the crowd of Le Strade's people that had formed around the fallen detective.

He took one look at Sherlock and said "My God!" his slightly crumpled wings twitching nervously.

"John…" Sherlock said, motioning weakly with one hand. The prince floated over and took that hand in an eager clasp.

"No hospital." Sherlock managed, and then the shadows opened their mouths wide and swallowed him.


	4. Resolution

John wrung the cool washrag in the basin that Mrs. Hudson had brought him and slapped it across Sherlock's fevered face. Mycroft had assured him that whatever Moriarty had given Sherlock would wear off in time; in the meantime he had to watch Sherlock diligently to lessen its effects.

His flat mate looked like "death warmed-over," as his mother used to say. His pale face looked like wax, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were sunken, giving him the appearance of a skull. His hair and clothes were soaked through with sweat, and every few minutes he would regain consciousness enough to start shivering violently, despite his blazing hot forehead.

John mopped Sherlock's brow carefully, rubbing his own neck where the ruthless thug had tried to wrench his head off with his bare hands. Thinking about how close he had been to death was terrifying; two or three more seconds and a little bit more force and his neck would have snapped. Thinking about how close he'd been to losing Sherlock was worse, because he knew with the ominous dread of death that Moriarty wouldn't just kill Sherlock if he ever got his manicured hands on him.

He eased the washcloth down around Sherlock's collarbone and wondered about their night, while he still could. He had no idea anything was even happening when he unassumingly stepped inside the flat with his groceries, and yet a few seconds later Lestrade and several officers were already at the flat and mere minutes after that Mycroft and his marginally-secret service were poised and ready to intercept Sherlock after Lestrade's failed intervention.

Was that the efficiency of Mycroft? Did he know that the Yard wouldn't be enough? Did Sherlock know what Moriarty intended to do tonight? Is that why he'd been asked to run the night-shift at St. Bart's? Was it the tag-team efforts of the Holmes brothers to keep him out of the line of fire?

He sighed and dipped his rag into the basin again. Sherlock's body was too hot; it warmed the rag too quickly.

There was a knock on Sherlock's door.

"Come in Greg." John said, beginning to mop Sherlock's face again. The alert face of the weary Detective Inspector popped into the room.

"How's he doing?" Lestrade asked, peering over Sherlock curiously. He seemed embarrassed to see the normally imperious detective weakened and kept looking at the floor.

"Can't tell." John whispered. "His heart rate is down, but that's to be expected while he's sleeping. I'm worried about this fever."

"Can I help?"

"No," John said, smiling gently "You can go."

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, and then back to the floor. He nodded sheepishly and muttered a little snitch of something about seeing them soon, and then crept out of the flat, passing Mrs. Hudson on his way out.

Mrs. Hudson stood silently at the door. She came in every few minutes to check on them. John quietly reassured her that he could handle Sherlock and that he would pay for the bullet holes in her walls.

"I don't care about my blinking walls, silly." She said weakly. "I just want to make sure you're okay. Sure you don't need anything?"

"No. Thank you Mrs. Hudson." John said.

Mrs. Hudson crept back downstairs, shaken, but unharmed. Goodness knows she was too old for this kind of excitement in the middle of the night.

John dropped the rag back into the bowl with a sickening plopping noise and put his cold hands on the sides of Sherlock's face. He was burning up.

There was another knock on the open door as the parade of looky-loos drove on. Without waiting for approval from John, Mycroft stepped inside.

"Has he said anything yet?" Mycroft demanded.

"No, but he's fine. Thanks for asking." John said, slightly peeved.

Mycroft arched his eyebrow elegantly and clutched his umbrella tightly.

"He's my brother, I knew he would be fine." Mycroft quipped haughtily.

"Right, whatever." John said. "I have him under control, you can go and… I don't know, sleep, or interrogate Jim. Oh, yes interrogate Jim. That sounds good, let's go with that."

Mycroft walked around Sherlock's bed and knelt down opposite John, ignoring the little man and folding his fingers over the hooked handle of his umbrella.

"Patience, Dr. Watson." Mycroft hummed, eyes roaming his brother. "These things take time. We must let him stew in his own juices first."

Sherlock began to shiver slightly.

John placed his hands on Sherlock's face again. His fever had dropped just since Mycroft had entered the room.

"His fever has…"

"Gone down? Yes, I'm aware." Mycroft interrupted, seeming even smugger than usual. If possible.

"How do you know?" John asked curiously.

Mycroft smiled, reaching out for his brother's face in the darkness. His fingers brushed over his damp face lightly, tracing a path from cheek to chin.

Sherlock turned and rubbed against his brother's hand blindly, body trembling violently beneath the thick sheets.

"It was always this way. Every time."

John didn't ask what Mycroft meant by every time, he had a fair idea of what time he meant.

Sherlock moaned and stirred beneath the sheets. John grabbed the bottle of water he'd kept at the side of the bed, hoping that while Sherlock was conscious he could take the chance to re-hydrate him.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared dully into the black side of the room, searching for the cooling hand from his nightmares.

"Sherlock, can you drink this for me?" John pressed.

Sherlock's empty eyes roved over John and recognized him mutely.

"Fairy magic?" He whispered breathlessly. John was taken aback by the earnestness of the question.

"That's right." Mycroft leapt in. "The best."

Sherlock allowed the bottle to be pressed to his lips and took a few eager sips before turning away his face from the dim glow of the light at his nightstand. He peered into the darkness and spotted the silhouette he'd been looking for.

"North King…" He whispered

"I'm right here Sherlock."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault. I don't blame you.

"Weak."

Mycroft placed a tentative hand over Sherlock's eyes. "Sleep now."

Sherlock nodded and complied.

"What was that?" John whispered.

Mycroft shrugged. "Hallucination brought on by the drugs. Nothing more."

"But you said it had happened before?"

"It has." He admitted. "And no doubt it will happen again. Good night."

John watched Mycroft make his departure, and almost rose to continue questioning him, but he stayed beside Sherlock, welded to his chair. Sherlock's fever was broken. It couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?

Sherlock listened to the stairs groan and smiled softly to himself. Somewhere the Flame Imp burned and seethed someplace cold. Tomorrow he would be back to reality, but some parts of his fantasy always would manage to bleed into the real world.

"Jonthon."

John cringed and leapt at the sound of his flat mate's slightly stronger voice.

"Yes Sherlock, do you need anything?"

"No, no. I just wanted to tell you, before I forgot, I'd always envied your wings."

And with that Sherlock's head sank back to the pillows and he nodded off.

"My what?"

* * *

**And, as they say, that was all she wrote. So tell me, dear readers: Should I do one for John?**

**I had the notion, since Martin Freeman is starring in a popular Fantasy movie, and Sherlock's delusion was fantasy themed, I could do a John delusion that was Sci-fi themed since Benedict Cumberbatch (apologes for spelling) is staring in a popular Sci-fi film? Or I could do another Sherlock to expand, or I could go finish my other stories like a good fanfiction writer.**

**Reviews to help me decide would be mucho apreciated. Thanks!**


	5. Initiation

**I just got back from the new Star Trek movie. So here's John's delusion!**

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, Sherlock to John: over."

John flickered to life as stars and bright glittering planets orbited in and out of his field of vision. His head felt like gravity had decided to crush it like a grape, and he swooned trying to sit up. He settled for lying propped against his elbows and waiting for the swirling sensation to ebb.

"John, are you there?"

Sherlock's voice seemed to be in his head, echoing around and getting lost in the crevices of his thoughts looking for something to connect to.

"John, answer me if you can."

John groped blindly for his phone in the dark, touching it with his fingertips just by chance. His hands were slippery with sweat and he couldn't seem to steady his grip.

"I'm here." He said shakily.

"John where are you? It's a fire fight out here and we could use you're not-inconsiderable knowledge of firearms!"

"I…uh…"

John peered around, wiping the sweat from his eyes and brow with his elbow and gasping for breath in the steamy, claustrophobic atmosphere.

"Actual fire?" He asked absently. The popping noises coming from the phone assured him that bullets were involved somewhere. The line abruptly went silent.

John pulled himself up and propped himself on a velvety cushion. Instantly he regretted it, for with another popping noise a hail of glass was sent slicing through the air. He clutched at his neck and collapsed into the seat, keeping his head well out of sight.

He pulled his fingers away and gasped, his new wound stung as the sweat poured freely into the open gash. He'd always heard the expression 'salt on a wound' but had never before experienced it so painfully.

He lunged forward through the darkness and searched for a hatch, or leaver that would free him from his black prison. He finally found a smooth metal handle and after a few seconds of negotiation, managed to make it click.

He paused; weary of whomever was targeting him just beyond the door. He took a cool breath, and then another and watched the fog condense on the glass screen of his helmet.

He threw the door open and swore loudly with feeling when several dazzling bursts of neon light burnt smoldering holes in the corroding metal. He ducked back and fished his own gun from the sleek black holster sewn into his spacesuit, cocking it and adjusting the dial of the plasma radiation to deadly potential.

He hid for a moment, and then rejoiced silently as he heard Sherlock calling his name, and several supporting shots fired in his direction. He used that chance to jump out of the small, compact sleeping cell he'd been resting in. The sleek black coffin-like living space was to be his home while he'd been on a mission at the International Star Station, but it had become his sanctuary when the rotating command center for the British Space and Astrological Exploration had been under siege by forces unknown. He checked the other honeycomb shaped units and found that about half had had their doors blown open and their contents raided; the other half seemed to be the crew that had opted to spend the short interval aboard in a sub-sleep, cryogenically frozen.

Sherlock had been among them, his specific instructions being no to wake him unless something interesting happened.

As John broke into a dead run for the cover of a large metal pipe that would provide ample cover for him to launch a counter attack, he ducked to avoid a dazzling red beam of energy that lifted the hairs of his neck and singed the back of his suit, and thought to himself: _here's something interesting._

"John!"

John saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and a gleam of silver dancing on the glass of his helmet and in an instant Sherlock was at his arm, covering their flight with a short array of blasts.

They both collapsed into a heap behind the pipe, John panting and Sherlock smoothing his hair back behind his pointed ears.

"Are you okay? We thought we'd lost you." Sherlock said, leveling his laser on his knee and preparing for the eventual invasion.

"Lost me? What happened, do we know who's attacking?"

Sherlock did a double take, and seemed to see something suspicious in his partner.

"Are you alright?" He asked again, his slightly metallic voice took on an anxious husk, a unique program he'd fitted himself with a few upgrades ago that significantly improved his sympathy to human emotional patterns and empowered him in many cases.

"You look drugged." He said.

John sighed and took a steady hand on his own weapon. "That's a funny thing to say, you can't even see me through my helmet."

Suddenly a man hefting a large black missile launcher maneuvered in front of John's weapon and he fired at point blank range. The glowing hole his laser left in the man's gaping middle beamed red, and then turned to charred black meat as the man collapsed lifelessly into a crumpled pile on the floor.

John heaved himself to his feet and wrapped himself around the pipe, arm extended fully while his body remained mostly covered. He eased the trigger lovingly with his eerily calm hands and in two heartbeats one man who had been advancing wolfishly had a spasm, threw his arms up, flailed and fell to the ground dead. Four more heartbeats and two more men.

John jumped from the cover of his hiding spot and ran through the scene of the melee, jumping over British Astronauts and mysterious invaders alike, dodging the odd beam and sending a few shots off in the direction of anything that was fired at him. He was so focused on advancing that he almost did not hear Sherlock warning him: "John, you're not wearing any helmet!"

He could not heed his friend's warning, for up ahead he spotted a man in a dimly lit hallway silhouetted by the hellish glow of the emergency lights. From that distance he could not tell if the man was friend or foe, British or Alien.

As if sensing his confusion, the man in the red suit turned slowly, the plates of his life-giving device meekly shining. His face was hidden by the blue glare of lights on his face screen.

John blinked heavily, letting oceans of sweat stream through his eyes. The Space Station was a raging inferno, indicating that somewhere one of the central life-supporting programs was on the fritz. The system which kept the energy of the Space Station from being transferred into heat was not working, meaning, in short that soon the station would not only fry everyone on board, but also that instead of energy fueling the station, the engines would overheat, causing massive failures across the board.

In short, the energy needed to keep the Station floating would not be there. They were fixing to fall out of the sky.

He opened his eyes and choked on the filtered air he'd been trying to suck down his parched throat. The man in the red suit was looking at him, his face clearly framed in the bright blue lights.

Of course when the end came, it had to be Moriarty.


End file.
